


Miles Apart

by RussianWitch



Category: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Introspection, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 04:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10325987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Q takes his work home with him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd

"007, 006, you aren't there to have fun!" Q sneers, watching the feed from the establishment's security cameras."While we're all in awe of your respective alcohol tolerances, I refuse to report that the target was lost because you had to stop to heave."  

The cameras are relatively well hidden, but Q still feels both of their gazes like they are looking straight at him through the lens. "'aven't heaved since—," Q isn't sure why 006 sounds nostalgic about something so unpleasant, "that thing in Morocco an' that was mostly the food."

Fortunately, Q wasn't on shift for that, or possibly not even a handler at that point. Both agents are skirting mandatory retirement age after all. Q could have sworn 006 had passed it half a decade ago, except all records he can find disagree. He can't prove tampering, especially after the events of the last few years, and what remains of the 'old guard' isn't talking, so, 006 remains in the field using obsolete methods and get depressingly adequate results...

"Target in sight," 007 reports, cold and clipped like he hasn't been drinking for the last three hours, straightening up slowly out of his slouch against 006's side. Q is reminded of his cats when a new toy catches their attention.

006 looks up at the camera one last time under the cover of a stretch, and then the game is on.

The next three hours are spent coordinating the agents as they play cat and mouse with a reckless arms dealer across Antwerp. Snapping at minions to move satellites, and accessing both public and private webcams to follow along, sniping at the agents when they turn their mission into a game, deliberately getting themselves noticed to speed things along.

007 leads some of the goons off, getting rid of them while providing a running commentary, while 006 keeps on the main target's tail melting into the shadows, and following directions without comment. Eventually, they corner the target, still alive and more importantly, before he realizes that wiping all of his electronics is probably a good idea.

Cheered by the prospect of an interesting hour of extracting information, Q hands the operation over to one of Tanner's minions after dispatching a courier with documents to keep both the agents out of lock-up in the event the police gets to them before the cleanup crew can. He thanks his lucky stars that Tanner and other higher management are the ones to deal with the other agencies. His diplomatic skills barely sufficient to survive budget meeting and weekly conferences with M, Q doubts he'd be able to stand dealing with international politics.

None of the other operations in progress need his personal attention, R and the battalion of handlers at her disposal can keep an eye on things for the rest of the night. He doesn't mind the long, irregular hours, but the cats object when their routine is interrupted too often. Q checks his messages, then looks in on the two agents for the last time ensuring the cleanup crew has managed to find them, and they haven't managed to blow anything up in the meantime.

Finishing up, Q takes a company car to the other side of the city calling a cab on the way. In the night, London reminds him of a movie, not completely, not with all the lights on 24/7 and the occasional insomniac on the streets, but the similarity is there. Waiting for the cab after the car leaves him, Q huddles in his anorak thanking his lucky stars for synthetic materials. He could go straight home, they have designations for a reason, and no one would think Q important if he walked out of the building among the rest of the workers, but considering his hours... He prefers to be safe rather than sorry, even if it makes him seem a tad paranoid.

Once home, feeding the cats then feeding himself takes precedence over everything else. Q doesn't think of much until he's on the couch, feet up on the overflowing coffee table with his plate half finished trying to elbow a hopefully curious head out of his kebab. Cats and agents have a lot in common: both need the right motivators to behave, both annoyingly unpredictable, temperamental, and at the same time absurdly territorial.

He'd noticed the tendencies in all of the remaining 00-agents, and some of the better operatives from other departments: they got attached to their support staff, not quite refusing to go into the field without at least one familiar face. Considering a lot of them were recruited from the armed forces, Q wondered where the tendency came from.

Perhaps it was the lack of uniforms.

It's a curious phenomenon to observe from the sidelines, one Q, thankfully, doesn't have to partake in though he's found himself developing a disquieting fondness for some of the operatives. A fondness that's been shamelessly taken advantage off, not that he hadn't gotten his own back...

Food finished, he pushes Reggie off his lap, excess adrenaline from the operation still humming under his skin and finds himself covertly accessing his office workstation and from there the feed to the safe house the two agents are using while waiting for further instructions. The diplomatic pouch containing the electronics is already on its way, but the agents are waiting for a commercial flight back.

Q watches them: 006 sprawled across most of the sagging old fashioned couch, and 007 leaning back in the matching chair glass and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. How he keeps on passing the physicals, Q will never know. He decides against turning the audio on, not that either of them would know, but it seems like an excessive invasion of privacy. Watching without knowing what is being said is just as satisfactory after all, his cats don't talk either and he can understand them just fine.

The agents are drinking again, and apparently watching football on the tactical screen primarily meant to be used in operations. He's watched one of the other before, during and after the end of the operation, checking the level of the bottle on the coffee table between them, Q feels anticipation churn in his gut. He gets a mug of tea and feels almost like he's there with them.

He hadn't originally intended to watch the agents in his charge shag, but it had been impossible to avoid on several occasions and after, Q had been addicted. Limiting himself to only the times after missions he has supervised, he's so far hadn't managed to rid himself of the habit. Only 006 and 7, he's rationalized, only at times when they could arguably have expected to be watched.

Watching just the two of them is a rare treat, lazy and half drunk, without other company they aren't performing: they simply are. 006 seems more taken with the football than his companion, almost sitting up several times when the game presumably grows more intense. 007 follows slow sips of clear alcohol with deep drags of the cigarette watching 006 more than he watches the screen.

This is better than watching them laugh and flirt with random women picked up in bars, still hidden behind 'professional' masks. When they are alone the agents don't bother hiding their tiredness from each other, or their need.

Tossing his glass carelessly on the coffee table, 006 strokes himself over his jeans, still intent on the game. 007 grimaces, but Q notices, doesn't look away, in fact, to Q's eyes, 007 seems more alert, dropping his own glass by the chair as he lights another cigarette. He isn't sure if they are talking or not, 006 waves his hands around like he's making a point, and 007 nods following along until something 006 says makes the dour man laugh. Clamping the cigarette between his lips, 007 gets up stretching luxuriously towering over 006's prone form.

Shivers race down Q's spine as he imagines the lazy grin spreading across 006's face while he keeps stroking himself until 007 kneels down, straddling the prone agent's legs to bat his hands away. Q imagines the pinpricks of hot ash dropping on 006's chest, burning holes through his shirt and blistering the skin. He wonders if the sounds 006 makes are of pain or pleasure if he's cursing 007, or challenging him.

Q almost chokes on his tea when 006 does something lightning fast and mean that lands 007 on his back with 006 crouching over him with a feral grin, plucking the cigarette from between 007's lips to take a drag himself. Q's seen them touch before, check on each other by feel, habit, and training mingling into something Q is moderately sure he could make money off streaming it on certain sites. He doesn't expect to see 006 pinning his partner's wrists to the armrest above his head and start unbuttoning 007's shirt. Q watches as 006 leans down to mouth at the newly exposed skin, getting in the way of Q's perusal of 007's bare chest.

He shouldn't find either of them attractive, they aren't his type at all: too old, too rough around the edges, running feral in many ways. The 00's had gotten an unprecedented amount of leeway under the previous M and hadn't been reigned in yet. Q likes brains in his partners, people compatible with himself who'll be able to sympathize when he's bitching about work, and can at least generally appreciate geeking out over popular culture.

Neither of the men he's watching could possibly fulfill either criterion, other objections aside. He watches 006 wrap his hand around 007's throat, and 007 arch into the grip raising his knees to allow 006 to lean back against him when 006 lets him breathe again.

It doesn't look like something new to Q like they have suddenly decided to explore other possibilities. He squirms in his seat wondering if he has missed any other instances the two of them decided to burn off adrenaline with each other instead of strangers if they have come together in London in the past where Q could have watched more closely, could have followed them… 006 dispenses with his shirt tossing it on into the room, opening his belt and jeans briskly before returning his attention to 007 and doing the same to him.

The camera isn't meant for anything but a general overview, just then Q hates himself for never insisting on upgrades to the safe houses. Multiple cameras would have been better for different angles, then he wouldn't have to use his imagination to see the agent's cocks pressed together, possibly grasped in 006's hand both plump and slowly growing slick, skin dragging against skin as the agents watch each other intently.

Rubbing himself through his pants, Q wonders if this isn't some sort of twisted game of up-man-ship they've decided to play: the loser coming first, or possibly shows emotion. He wonders how often 007 allows even 006 to come this close, tolerates being done to instead of dispensing pleasure.

There isn't really anything to see, but still, Q's hand ends up in his pants, awkwardly rubbing his own cock while watching the grainy picture. In a way, it reminds him of the soft porn that played on the telly very late when he'd been little never quite showing anything while still managing to be extremely titillating. He hadn't liked it much, focused as it was on the actresses, but lacking anything else decent he'd made due.

Q has a very good imagination, after all, his job requires it: he can imagine their heavy breathing synchronizing as they push closer to completion. 007 might have given up control, but Q will bet his hips are moving, pushing into the touch or maybe 006 has his full weight on the prone man, keeping him still. When 006 leans down, covers his partner's completely, Q imagines him growling something in his ear, filth most likely. Q cannot imagine them exchanging sweet words, doesn't want to think of any other sounds but grunts and growls of pleasure.

Nice is for other people, people Q has dated over the years and drifted away from. If he wanted nice, he could activate his online dating profile again, or download one of the apps. He examines the knobby curve of 006's back the way the man's biceps strain as he braces on the armrest and fucks his fist harder, his shaggy hair obscuring both their faces. Q could be watching anyone, could be watching a random amateur porn channel on the internet, but at the same time, he knows these people. In a few days, or weeks he's going to be standing on the other side of the desk from one or the other of them bantering and instructing.

They'll never know, he thinks rocking in his seat, resisting the urge to free himself from his underwear. He likes it better this way, not quite right, a little more difficult than it should be, forcing Q to work for his pleasure. His wrist is starting to hurt a little, chafed raw where it rubs against the zipper with his every move. Q wonders if they ever fuck, if he's going to see them on a bed if he watches long enough fucking each other against the headboard.

He watches 006 throw his head back, cursing or gasping for breath, watches 007's hands tighten into fists. His own hand tightening on his cock, strokes getting rougher and faster, almost painful in their intensity. Part of him wants to stop, to see which one of them wins their little game, but his body demands release, so Q keeps on stroking forcing himself not to blink as he watches the screen. 007 is the one who comes apart first, arching up, throwing his head back, his eyes wide. 006 lunges down, burying his face in the bared throat, possibly biting, possibly just groaning his own pleasure.

Q twists his hand just right and comes in his pants like a damn teenager they still occasionally accuse him of being. Tendrils of guilt start creeping up his spine before Q is done cleaning up, all the reasons why he shouldn't be doing this spinning through his head the main one being that the agents under his care deserve better.

His hand shakes as he reaches for the mouse to disconnect the feed. Q allows himself one last glance at the still tangled on the crappy sofa—and sees Bond looking up, right at the camera.


End file.
